Shortly after this conversation, it was put to the vote whether the party should return to town by land or by water; and with the exception of Princess Leinsengen and Lord Baskerville, who preferred a close carriage for fear of damp, the rest agreed to go as they had come. It was soon quite night; but a brilliant moon made the water look very beautiful; and the soft language of Mr. Winyard, as he sat by the side of Lady Glenmore in the boat, fashioned in its phrase to the taste of his hearer, appeared to her in unison with the scene, and she thought him the only one of the party who was at all amusing, or had given a colouring of any interest to the hours she had passed with them. Arrived at Whitehall, Lady Tenderden proposed their adjourning to her house, where supper was prepared; but Lady Glenmore, uneasy at a longer absence from home and her husband's society, determined for once to be firm in her refusal; and stepping into her carriage, which awaited her, drove at once home. On her arrival there, however, she was doomed to sustain an unexpected disappointment, as she found a note from Lord Glenmore, dated from the House; in which he told her not to be uneasy if he were late, for that the business of the morning was likely to be followed by a protracted debate on an important question. Lady Glenmore sighed over this note as she perused it; and, tired with the day's excursion, yet not sufficiently composed for rest, she experienced that listlessness of mind, which admits not of any active exertion, and yet affords no satisfactory contemplation whereon to dwell. Lord Glenmore's attention happened to be at this moment directed to a high post under government, which it was more than probable he would attain. But could he have dreamt that in this pursuit he was neglecting the duties of private life, and casting forth an inexperienced young person, unprotected, amid all the dangers of a pleasure-loving world, he would have left all else to guide her through the perils to which he now so frequently left her exposed. How often does it happen, in various instances, that in the blindness of human wishes, we hurry to the goal of our desires--even those which we deem innocent and praiseworthy; but which, when suffered to lead us on, without a reference to a higher power, never fail to _mislead_, and prove fallacious when obtained. Yes, this is that self-pride of reason, which, confiding too much in its own merits, and not acting under the reliance of a superintending Providence, even when on the point of realizing its fondest hopes, finds it has grasped at a shadow; and to an ideal good, sacrificed a permanent happiness.